Hannah Grace Wang
Awakened by the storm,
you’re never the same afterwards.
When it rains, streams become rivers.
Rivers flush away the debris, cleanse the system.
Whatever you’re thinking,
it’s not real. Just a mirage of
the things you’ve brushed aside.
Don’t turn your eye away from
the phases of the moon, for they all
look different in water.
The cycle persists.
Some things come and go, others
stay with you, always
there’s no escaping the
ever forward, always looking back
september burns at the wick
and the ghosts of all the people i’ve ever loved
(and lost, and lost, and lost)
take root in the crawl space under my grandmother’s stairs.
i can feel every iteration of myself dragging her feet
through the muddied leaves of autumn:
the bitter halflife of childhood.
(a hundred thousand fractals of what was,
what could have been).
there’s something dangling from the precipice—
an urgent entropy, an unwavering inertia
that surges forward, heedless of our stumbling gait.
(none of us can go back)
october holds the candle.
time carries on.
Sat in puddles of hair
And pools of cracked fingernails
Bones leather-bound to skin
And teeth weaved into dirt
With one final visit to a grave of lost dreams
And one final letter to a circle of solace
I’ll retreat under the dreary air accompanying midnight’s rain
To smother the murky plummet streaming through the grotto
The bats will guard the echo humming through a hollow cave
And the strangeness of the forest fog as I wait for sun rays
Drowned in a creek of false conviction
And a carpet of mossy faith
I’ll remain in my cave
Until the bread of grief rots
As I preserve what’s left
Of my splintered shell